


in vino veritas

by dashwood



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Berlin lives, Flirting, Fluff, Jealousy, Just the gang having a good time, M/M, Metaphors, Pining, Pre Bank of Spain, Relationship Advice (the nerdy kind), Rio is there too, Self-Loathing, Sharing a Bed, enjoying their last days of freedom before the big heist, no one got captured and everyone is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24212977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: There are different kinds of drunk, Martín finds. Absinthe makes him drowsy, Tequila giddy. Sangria has him in a pensive mood and cocktails are a complete wildcard. And wine – well, wine makes him honest. Sometimes too much so.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 155
Kudos: 404





	1. Absinthe

**Author's Note:**

> Set before the heist on the Royal Bank.
> 
> (Also, be responsible in your alcohol consumption. You know, not like Martín.)
> 
> _Update:_ This story has been translated into [Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/10344423) by [ddampness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddampness); go and check it out!

“Berlin,” Martín whines as he approaches their table. "Be my boyfriend.” 

Andrés doesn't give any indication that he heard him, seemingly lost in his conversation with Lisbon and Nairobi. But he lifts his arm and places it on the arm rest of their booth, creating a perfect Martín-shaped space for him to slip into, and Martín scoots close – and closer still – until his shoulder is pressed snugly against Andrés’s side. 

He pointedly ignores the raised-eyebrow look Sergio throws his way. He’s too drowsy to care. Too drowsy to dance and party, too. Hence, why he gave in and joined the hard core of their group – the _adults_ who have taken to sipping wine in a corner booth, all refined and austere. Boring. 

Still, Martín has to admit that he can't quite keep up with the young ones anymore. He left Denver, Rio and Tokyo on the dancefloor, and – ah yes – if he cranes his neck, he can still see them throwing their arms in the air, giggling and hollering like there’s no tomorrow. 

They’ve lost Helsinki sometime over the course of the evening. Martín saw him slipping into the restrooms with a handsome hunk of a man – the perks of finally having convinced his compatriots to visit a gay bar. 

But even so, the evening is getting late and Martín finds that he's worn himself out. He's spent hours spinning around the dancefloor, singing and giggling and playing nice with the others for once. Together they’ve laughed at Sergio’s obvious discomfort – the way he clings to his girlfriend in a desperate attempt not to attract any flirtatious advances. 

Not like Martín. 

Oh, he enjoys being a free man. All the flirting and appreciative glances, the not-so-fleeting touches. But that was two hours ago, and now the absinthe he’s been chucking back all evening is kicking in, leaving him dead on his feet. 

Besides, he’s not interested in any of the men who’ve been trying to get his attention, wouldn’t want to take any of them home even if it wasn’t for Sergio’s ridiculously outdated _no personal relationships_ rule (which incidentally includes outside parties. Martín checked). 

Which is why he’s so grateful to have Andrés. Martín has learnt years ago that there's no better charm to ward off persistent suitors than an alpha male. Someone who radiates power and control, someone you wouldn’t dare cross. 

Someone like Andrés. 

(And well. Martín quite enjoys the proximity this ploy affords him to his friend. The opportunity to be close to him, to indulge in affectionate behavior which would usually be reserved for Andrés's wives.) 

With a content sigh, he borrows further into Andrés's side, tuning out Nairobi’s amused snort of laughter. He doesn’t know what her problem is. He has asked for Andrés's permission, after all. He’s _allowed_ to lean in and snake his arms around Andrés's middle, acting like a man who’s very much spoken for in case Angelo or Antonio (or whatever his name may be) glances his way. 

He closes his eyes, too drowsy to follow the conversation. Not that he minds. Being so close to Andrés is pure _bliss_ , and soon enough Martín finds himself dozing off, lost in the heady scent of Andrés's cologne, the warmth of his body. The sense of safety he emits, shield and shelter and anchor alike. 

“—he okay?” 

“Just tired,” Andrés sighs, and a moment later Martín feels his hand in his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. It makes him want to _purr_. “He tends to crash when he’s drunk on absinthe.” 

“They had a _two for one_ special on,” Martín grumbles in his own defense. “I’m broke and gay. Of course, I’ll go for the cheap stuff.” 

Nairobi snorts. 

“What, don’t you know how to get guys to buy you a drink?” 

“I’m not putting out,” Martín says with a pointed glare in her direction. “ _I_ ’m not a slut.” 

Nairobi sputters, clearly offended, but her reply is drowned out by Andrés's amused chuckle. 

“I believe that is our cue to leave.” Andrés pats Martín's thigh, the muscles tensing under his touch. "We'll see you back at the monastery. Ladies, Professor.” 

Andrés guides him out of their booth, his fingers closing around Martín's wrist to pull him behind him, shielding him from the throng of dancing people as he steers him towards the exit. 

Martín closes the distance between them, pressing close to Andrés's back and pinching the velvet-y material of his blazer with his free hand. He doesn’t want to lose him, doesn’t want Andrés to slip away and leave him behind. He wants to stay with him forever, wants to— 

“Oh, hey! _Cariño_!” 

Suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder and Martín stops in his tracks, turning around to find himself face-to-face with Angelo-Antonio. The disco lights paint the disappointment on his features in a vivid pink, splotches of red highlighting his eyes and cheeks. 

“Are you leaving already?” 

Martín blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. He's too tired for this, he realizes. Too tired to laugh and flirt and play coy. Too tired for idle chatter, for a polite rejection. All he wants is to tumble face-first onto his bed, preferably with Andrés by his side. 

Hmm, now there’s a thought. 

He’s about to turn away, content to ignore the guy, when Andrés curls his arm around Martín in a display of possessiveness. 

Martín’s heart _thrills_. 

“I fear that playtime is over.” Andrés's tone is sickly-sweet. _What a shame_ , it seems to say. _Maybe next time_. “Better run along and find a new toy. This one’s taken.” 

Martín hums low in his throat, content as a cat lazing in the sun. Something swells inside his chest. It’s absurd, Martín thinks. He shouldn't feel proud to be called Andrés's toy, his _pet_. And yet the mere thought of belonging to him, of being _his,_ makes his head spin with unbridled lust. 

Angelo-Antonio trudges off, tail tugged between his legs, and Martín couldn't care less. Truthfully, nothing seems to matter in this pleasant, alcohol-induced buzz he’s achieved. It feels like his senses have been dimmed, reducing his world to the violent bass thrumming through his body, the stench of sweat and alcohol thickening the air. A blur of color, twenty different shades of pink and violet and everything in-between. 

The only thing that matters – the only thing that’s still clear-cut, that is absolute and vivid – is Andrés. 

It’s always Andrés, Martín thinks as he follows him out into the night. The crisp air hits him like a bucket of ice water, and yet he feels like he’s glowing from the inside out. A nightlight, gleaming-shining- _burning_. 

Martín knows it's not because of the absinthe. Rather, it’s because of Andrés. Because their shoulders keep brushing with each step, because Andrés looks beautiful in the bleak moonlight, because he entertains Martín's sluggish mind with tales of Van Gogh’s _Starry Night._

Because Andrés's hand lingers on the small of his back, guiding him home. 


	2. Sangria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm bumping the rating up for swearing & discussions of (non-explicit) sex.

“Helsinki, Bogotá, Berlin." 

“Easy,” Nairobi says. “I’d marry Helsi in a heartbeat. And I’d kill Bogotá. I wouldn't let him touch me with a ten-foot pole." 

She shudders and Martín snorts with amusement. That is, until the implication behind her words catches up with him and makes his blood run cold. 

“Wait, hold up,” he says, shaking his head as if to clear it. “You’d fuck Berlin?” 

Nairobi meets his gaze from across the room. Martín doesn't like the way she searches his face, like she's looking for hidden clues. She's entirely too observant and Martín is terrified that she'll see right through him. That she'll read him like a book, zero in on the resentment in his eyes. The _jealousy_. 

“Why not? As long as he doesn’t open his mouth, I’m sure he’d show me a good time.” 

Martín wants to _snarl_ at her. Wants to yell at her to keep her filthy hands off Andrés. Because he knows – he just _knows_ – that if she were to offer, Andrés might just say yes. Oh, Martín is painfully aware of his friend’s respect for the woman. That they have come to some kind of understanding during their time at the Mint. A begrudging truce, an alliance. 

They’d look good together. A powerful couple. 

It’s funny, Martín thinks. Just a few moments ago he was happy and carefree. Punch-drunk on sangria, his fingers sticky with fruit, his lips stained a strawberry-red. A pleasant buzz thrumming through his veins, making him laugh and smile and giggle like a teenager on prom night. 

Now he feels empty and cold. 

“He wouldn’t touch you,” he snaps after a moment, wishing that he believed his own words. “He’s got better taste than that.” 

“And yet,” Nairobi drawls in a smug tone, her eyes dark and knowing. “He isn’t interested in _you_ , _mi querido_.” 

Her words are razors, cutting him deep. Heat rushes to his face – it's embarrassment and rage and jealousy all wrapped into one, a delirious combination that makes him see red. 

He can feel the others staring at him like he’s a fucking attraction, a caged animal at the zoo. Lisbon’s gaze is intense, _perceptive_ , and Stockholm’s eyes are shining with pity. Tokyo is smiling at him, smug and complacent. She’s laughing at his misery – _relishing_ in it – and Martín wants to punch her in the fucking face. 

This isn’t what he imagined when they’d invited him to a girls’ night. Oh, he’d been happy enough to join them. The promise of loud music, free booze and the chance to tell Sergio _see, I do get along with the others_ was too enticing, a siren’s call. 

He hadn’t expected to be psychoanalyzed. That the girls would find his Achilles’ heel and poke it mercilessly, cackling with glee. That they’d grin and leer and chant _you’re not good enough_ and _he’ll never want you_. 

“Fuck you,” he splutters and jumps up, storming out of the room and slamming the door shut behind him, peace and quiet be damned. 

How dare they, he thinks as he stomps to his room, his eyes burning with angry tears. How dare they say shit like that. How dare they mock him. 

How dare they _understand_ him. 

He stops when he reaches the door to his room, hand lingering on the doorknob. He doesn’t want to be alone right now, he realizes. Doesn’t want to drown in the silence of his room, so loud and jarring that it’d force him to confront his feelings. He glances over his shoulder at the door opposite his. It’s closed, not a strip of light peeking out from beneath the threshold. 

Martín wonders... 

Turning on his heels, he crosses the distance to the other room. Slowly, he opens the door and slips into the darkness, slips into the bed – and stops just shy of slipping into Andrés's arms. 

Instead, Martín curls up behind him, his fingers reaching out to graze the soft silk of his pajamas. He feels like a dog nestling at their owner’s feet, starved for attention, yet too afraid to ask for it. Not knowing how to ask for it. 

Andrés turns to face him. Not asleep, then. 

“Martín?" 

He hums, but doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t give Andrés any explanation for why he’s there, why he snuck into his bed like a little boy who’s afraid of the monsters in his closet. 

There’s no need for it though. Andrés understands Martín's needs, his demons. Andrés understands _him_. 

Without a word, Andrés slips an arm around Martín's shoulder and pulls him close until his head is tucked under Andrés's chin. The gesture is kind and sweet, and Martín feels warm all over. 

“Were the other children mean to you?” 

His tone is teasing, laced with faux-condescension, and Martín's lips twitch into a grin against his will. 

“Fuck off,” he huffs and Andrés laughs. His chest rumbles and Martín burrows further into him, hiding his own smile in the crook of his neck. 

“What happened?” 

“Nothing,” he says. And then – because it _does_ bother him – he adds in a small voice, “Nairobi wants to fuck you.” 

The words slip past his lips and into the night, and Martín holds his breath. He isn't sure why. Is it because he’s afraid that Andrés will leave him? That he'll seek Nairobi out, eager to take her up on her offer? That Martín will have to listen to the heart-wrenching sound of her bed hitting the wall, again and again and again, until the silence signifies their mutual satisfaction? 

That Martín will, once again, be reminded that he isn't what Andrés wants? 

But to his surprise Andrés doesn't move. Just clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, almost pensively. 

“You sound skeptical,” he says. “Do you not think that I’d be a good fuck?” 

Martín sucks in a sharp breath. Oh, he _knows_ that Andrés would be an absolute adventure in bed. A thing of awe and beauty and terror. A revelation, a sacrilege. But he knows just as well that if he were to give voice to these thoughts – his darkest, most depraved, most hopeless fantasies – he'd surely break. 

So Martín takes the coward's way out. He changes the subject. 

“We were playing fuck, marry, kill.” 

Andrés laughs, the huff of air ruffling Martín's hair. 

“How old are you again, hmm?” 

Martín smirks. 

“It was fun,” he says. Waits a beat. “Until Nairobi went and ruined it.” 

“You can’t blame her for wanting to have me. It’s only natural.” 

“Hmm, I know,” Martín purrs, his tone betraying his own desire. 

They fall silent then. Andrés's hand finds its way into Martín's hair, fingers toying with the strands at the nape of his neck. Tugging and twisting in a way that makes Martín want to keen and moan and beg for more. It’s pure bliss. 

“Denver, Helsinki, me.” 

“Hmm?” 

Martín blinks his eyes open, lashes fluttering against the curve of Andrés's throat. He was close to drifting off, he realizes. Lulled to sleep by the warmth, the sense of safety, the soothing melody of Andrés's heartbeat beneath his ear. 

Andrés chuckles, clearly amused by his drowsiness. 

“Fuck, marry, kill,” he presses. “Denver, Helsinki, me.” 

Blood rushes to his face and suddenly Martín is glad for the cover of darkness, glad for the privacy it affords him. He swallows hard, wishing there were a way out. But he can't deny Andrés anything, can't tell him no. Even if it costs him his dignity. 

“Denver. I’d kill Denver,” Martín says eventually. “I don’t mind _him_ , but that laugh...” 

He huffs and shakes his head – a miniscule movement; he doesn’t want Andrés to pull away.

“And,” he bites his lip, mulls over his decision. “I’d fuck Helsinki.” 

There’s the scrape of nails against his scalp, a bit too rough – almost punishing in its intensity – and Martín's breath hitches in his throat as pain and pleasure flood him, a constant synergy. 

“And I’d, ah...” He hesitates. Screws his eyes shut. “I’d marry you.” 

“Would you now?” 

Martín exhales and much to his mortification it comes out as a whimper, soft and needy. He wants to tug it back inside of him and swallow it down, erase any evidence of its existence. Of his weakness. 

“Yes,” he says, but what he means is this: _We could stay together. 'til death do us part. Forever._

Andrés hums, satisfied with his answer. Impossibly, he pulls Martín even closer, their legs tangled up – Martín's leg wedged between Andrés's, their hips pressed together. It feels wondrous to be allowed this close to him, a marvel which is only surpassed when Andrés presses a kiss to the top of his head, a silent _thank you_ and _sweet dreams_ and _I’ve got you_. 

“Sleep now, _mi c_ _ariño_.“ 

“Yes,” Martín says and closes his eyes, allowing himself to drift off, warm and content and safe in Andrés's arms. 


	3. Tequila

“ _Señor_ _Berlin_ ,” Martín purrs as he bounds up to Andrés. The way he rolls the syllables around his tongue turns his words into something suggestive, something obscene. Something _scandalous_. Come hither, he seems to say, and devour me whole. 

Usually, Martín is more careful than that. He has made it a rule early on not to flirt with Andrés – at least not in so many words. After all, that is how Icarus got burnt, and so Martín keeps his distance, terrified of betraying his own desires, of overstepping and making Andrés uncomfortable. 

He’s terrified of losing him. 

But right now, the sun is burning down on them and his blood is buzzing with tequila and his cheeks are hurting from smiling too much. The music is good, and everything is absolutely fucking amazing. He doesn’t have a single care in the world – and neither should Andrés. Which, incidentally, is why Martín has abandoned his attempts to teach Denver how to tango (the boy lacks hand-eye coordination; what a shame) to lift his friend’s spirits. 

Andrés's lips curve into a smile. It’s a languid, lazy thing that never fails to make Martín's heart race inside his chest. A nervous tha-thumping, and at this point it might as well be a Pavlovian reflex.

“Sit,” Andrés says and nods towards the sun lounger he’s stretched out on, bathing in the summer sun like a spoilt cat. It’s meant for one person, but Martín squeezes himself onto it until their shoulders are pressed up against each other. 

“Having fun?” 

Martín shrugs.

“You were right. They’re not as bad as I thought,” he admits. His eyes wander over their little _banda_ of misfits, chatting and laughing and dancing. Martín isn't sure what exactly it is they're celebrating. If it's the nice weather, their last days of freedom, or the fast-approaching heist on the Royal Bank of Spain. No one seems to know and in the end it doesn't matter.

"They're growing on me. And,” he adds after a beat, “the alcohol helps, of course.” 

He shoots Andrés a cheeky grin a he lifts the bottle of tequila he’s been carrying around all evening, his favorite accessory. Andrés laughs. 

“Are you going to share?” 

“With you? Always.” 

He hands him the bottle, carefully pushing down on the wave of arousal that hits him when their fingers brush. No matter how often he touches Andrés – no matter how chaste, how innocently – his body always reacts as though it’s the first time, nerves aflutter and heart a-thumping. 

Andrés, of course, is unaffected. He just stares at the bottle, turns it over in his grasp. Raises an eyebrow. 

“Are you a barbarian, Martín? Where's the salt and lemon?" 

“No salt,” Martín says with a shake of his head. “But I do have a lemon!” 

With a proud smile, he produces a lemon from the chest pocket of his shirt like it’s a handy little party trick. Andrés chuckles, clearly amused by his zeal. An eager boy scout, that’s him. Always prepared. 

Next, he pats down his pants, and – ah, yes. There it is. He pulls out his pocketknife and cuts into the lemon until he’s got a neatly-sliced wedge. He can feel Andrés's eyes on him, dark and intent, and wonders if he’s impressed by his dexterity. By the fact that he can carve up a lemon even though he’s drunk off his ass. 

An remarkable feat, surely. 

From the corner of his eye he watches as Andrés unscrews the bottle and takes a sip, and Martín – always anticipating Andrés's every need – hastens to finish up the slice of lemon. He briefly pins it between his teeth so he can put his knife away, the rough rind poised against the tip of his tongue, and— 

Martín freezes when Andrés leans in to sink his teeth into the slice of lemon wedged between his lips. 

His heart stops. Picks up speed. _Races_. 

He can’t think; his mind has shut itself down, reduced to the bare necessities. His choices are fight or flight, and his body has chosen to play dead instead. He can’t breathe – not when Andrés is so close. They're practically _kissing_ , and it's too much and yet not nearly enough. 

It's never enough. 

His fingers twitch against his thighs, longing to reach out and grasp Andrés's face. To keep him in place, to feel his sun-kissed skin beneath his fingertips. To draw him closer until the lemon falls from his – from _their_ mouths – and it’s just their lips, stained with lemon juice. 

It’s the sweetest thing, and Martín feels something in his chest ignite. His heart is a stack of timber, hungry for the match in Andrés's hands. It's reckless and irresponsible and yet Martín wants it _desperately_. 

Andrés pulls away, leaving Martín with a mouthful of lemon, sour and stinging. 

“This is quite good,” Andrés says and Martín finds himself nodding along before he realizes that Andrés is talking about the tequila, turning the bottle to inspect its label – as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just put Martín's world to a complete stand-still, robbing him of his breath and mind and heart. 

He swallows hard. 

“Yes,” he echoes hollowly. “Quite good.” 

His whole body is thrilling. Andrés has turned him into a thrumming, humming thing. 

It’s pathetic, really. They haven’t even touched – their lips didn’t so much as grace – and yet it was the most intimate experience of Martín's miserable life. A moment he'll cherish forever. He'll lock it up inside his mind like the rarest of birds, clip its wings so he can listen to its melodious trill whenever he feels lonely. A never-ending symphony. 

Well, Martín thinks as he slumps back in his seat, gnawing on the piece of lemon like it's a chicken bone. So much for not getting burnt. 


	4. Cocktails

Martín wakes with a mouthful of hair. His first thought is _well, this is new_. His second thought is that he can’t breathe and so he sputters and coughs until his mouth is no longer stuffed with tendrils of long, blonde curls. 

Wait. 

He jerks awake, his heart pounding furiously against his ribcage, a bird trying to escape its cage. 

Next to him, Stockholm stirs and blinks up at him with bleary eyes. Once, twice. No reaction. Martín expected to see his own emotional turmoil reflected on her face, to see the confusion and horror and disgust warring inside of him mirrored in her eyes. But to his surprise she looks completely unfazed by the whole situation, as though she regularly wakes up to a gay man in her bed 

“What the fuck is this?” 

“You’re not allowed to say that word,” a small voice pipes up from the foot of the bed and Martín's head whips around to find Stockholm's little boy – Cincinatti – staring back at him, his head cocked in a display of childish puzzlement. 

“Oh, Cinci, you’re awake already?” Stockholm’s voice is rough with sleep, yet laced with a mother’s affection (at least that’s what Martín imagines it'd sound like. Not that he’s ever heard it himself). “Go and see if breakfast is ready, okay?” 

Cincinatti purses his lips as though he wants to say something else, but then he shrugs and bounds out of the room. Martín can hear his little feet stomping down the stairs, an awful racket that’ll surely wake up everyone else. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Martín tries again. He's doing his best to keep his voice level, but it’s hard – _impossible,_ really – to fight the panic rising up inside of him. “Is this some kind of fucked-up _Twilight Zone_ , huh? What the fuck—” 

There’s a pained groan from the other side of the bed and Martín’s gaze flies past Stockholm to find Denver pressing a pillow against his ears. And well, Martín never thought he’d say this, but seeing Denver actually makes him feel better. The thought of a threesome is much more appealing than anything having happened between him and Stockholm. Martín shudders. 

“Can you two shut up,” Denver grumbles, the words muffled by his pillow. “This is the worst hangover I’ve ever had.” 

Hangover? 

Martín scrunches his face in thought. Right. They’d been drinking. Tokyo and Rio had gotten their hands on a shitload of booze and Martín had insisted on pouring cocktails for everyone – thanks to his brief stint as a bartender during his college years. 

But that’s all he’s got. Aside from that, Martín can’t remember shit. Everything’s a blur, incoherent flashes and disjointed conversations. He vaguely remembers twirling Lisbon around the dancefloor, and he thinks that at some point he snarled at Tokyo for tumbling into his lap in her drunken stupor. 

He remembers deafening music and the taste of fresh gooseberries on his tongue, his head spinning from too much booze, his fingers sticky with lemon juice and spilled alcohol. 

The rest is a blur. 

But fuck, Martín thinks. It's been _years_ since he's drunk himself into oblivion and towards the brink of a blackout. 

He should have known better. Cocktails are a potent poison. A dangerous, devilish thing. Half of the time, they reduce him to a pitiable mess and the other half, he’s on top of the world, the happiest man alive. 

Clearly, this time it turned out to be the former. 

Martín groans and brings a hand up to rub at his temple. 

“I had too many cocktails,” he says, quite superfluously. As if voicing his thoughts would somehow make it easier to keep track of the loose tendrils of memory running through his fingers like fine sand. 

Denver snickers and just as Martín expected, the sound is even worse when paired with a pounding headache. 

“Devil’s brew, more like,” Denver says. “But fuck, your cocktails were amazing. You really know what you’re doing, Palermo.” 

It’s a testament to the sense of dread and foreboding stewing inside of him that Martín doesn’t reply with a sly innuendo. Well, that and the fact that sharing a bed with a woman – no matter how platonic – puts a damper on his arousal.

Which begs the question... 

“But how the fuck did I end up with you two? No offence, but if I wanted to crash anyone’s sex life, I wouldn’t have picked the boring, married couple.” 

Stockholm rolls her eyes and Martín can’t help but feel that she’s not putting enough effort into it. There’s hardly any irritation behind it, certainly no ire. Instead, she seems almost fond. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she looks like she _cares_. About _him_. 

“You weren’t feeling well,” she explains in a patient tone. Motherly, once again. “We were trying to help you to your room, but you were crying and it just felt wrong to leave you.” 

Martín blinks. 

“I was crying?” 

Well, it’d explain the puffiness around his eyes and the soreness in his throat. 

“Like a baby,” Denver giggles. Stockholm swats his arm. 

“Denver,” she hisses and throws Martín an apologetic look. She’s clearly afraid of flustering him, of _upsetting_ him. Martín scoffs at her. What, does she think he’ll burst into tears and beg to be allowed to cry on her shoulder? Pour his darling little heart out like a boy? Pathetic. 

“It’s alright,” Stockholm says in a sweet tone, warm and understanding. It makes Martín want to gag. “I think everyone would be distressed after having a fight with Berlin.” 

And just like that his blood runs cold. 

“What?” He manages to croak out, pushing the words past the lump forming in his throat. “A fight with Berlin?” 

Stockholm eyes him warily, hesitating. She looks like she wants to turn away and change the topic. Like she’s afraid that he’ll break if she tells him the truth. 

When she finally nods, something inside of him _breaks_. 

“We don’t know what happened. You two had wandered off. But when you came back you were trying to throw yourself at Helsinki, and well...” She trails off, biting her bottom lip. “You were crying. A lot.” 

Fuck. 

No. 

Please no. 

Surely, he hadn’t tried anything. He couldn’t have. He’d been so careful for so fucking long, too mindful to throw it all away like that. To let it slip through his fingers because he was too selfish, too bold, too daring. 

Too greedy. 

His chest constricts, a tight weight pressing down on his lungs and Martín clamps his eyes shut to keep his world from spinning out of control. Stockholm must have mistaken the look of horror on his face for something else because a moment later Denver shoves a trash bin under his nose. Martín growls and pushes it away. 

“I’m fine,” he lies through clenched teeth, his voice strained. He’s anything but. He’s a fucking idiot. A pathetic, miserable, worthless excuse of a human being who has ruined everything because he couldn’t hold his liquor. 

And it’s so much worse still because Andrés wasn’t there for him. He always… Whenever Martín drinks too much, Andrés is right there by his side. Making sure that he’s alright. That he doesn’t get into trouble. Andrés always looks after him. Because Martín is his, and Andrés cares for his own. 

“I’m just,” he cuts himself off, unsure what to say. Instead, he screws his eyes shut and pushes down on the wave of nausea that hits him when he climbs out of bed. 

He can feel Stockholm’s eyes on him – filled with pity, surely. It makes him sick to his stomach. He isn’t a fucking charity case. At least not hers. If anything, he’s Andrés's. Or at least he used to be. 

“I’m going to… go,” he finishes lamely as he stumbles out of their room, his knees buckling beneath him. 

He doesn’t remember the journey to his room, the silent walk of shame. Doesn’t remember getting showered and dressed, doesn't remember anything save for a pervasive sense of trepidation. He's numb, his senses dimmed. Eclipsed. 

When he finally makes his way down for breakfast, Andrés is nowhere to be seen. Martín’s heart sinks as he crumbles into his usual seat at the table. 

And just when he thought that his morning – his _life_ , really – couldn't get any worse, Sergio rises from his seat across the table to sit down next to him. Martín wants to groan. 

“Martín,” Sergio says, and Martín knows he’s screwed by the use of his Christian name instead of his alias. Not the Professor then, but the concerned brother who tried to take Andrés away from him. Who almost succeeded. 

Martín _loathes_ this side of Sergio. 

“Listen,” Sergio continues, “My brother might find your _eccentricities_ amusing, but I can’t have you putting the team at risk. I need to be able to trust you.” 

Martín grinds his teeth, but doesn’t say anything. His eyes are glued to Andrés’s seat – as empty as Martín feels inside – and he finds himself nodding along to Sergio’s words, his _warning_.

Yes, it looks like he’s really outdone himself this time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fear that I'm going to add a sixth chapter. Bear with me.


	5. Intervention

“Berlin?” 

Andrés closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the damp air of the wine cellar. It makes him feel like a Gothic relict, a haunted specter roaming the halls of Strawberry Hill, restless and troubled. Burdened with his own misgivings. 

“It’s just us, _hermanito_.” 

There’s a brief pause – an eerie silence that befalls these hallowed halls – before Sergio rounds the corner, a dark figure looming in the shadows. Andrés offers him a small smile, a wordless _hello_ and _nice to see you_ and _why don’t you leave me alone, hmm_ all wrapped into one. 

“Andrés.” Sergio frowns. "What are you doing down here?” 

Andrés turns back to the shelves in front of him, reaching out to run his fingers along the bottles’ necks in a soft caress. He picks one of them up at random, turns it around and around and around in his grasp. Feels the weight of the liquid shift inside the bottle, a turning tide. 

“I’m looking for something to drink.” 

“You’re raiding the monastery’s wine cellar,” Sergio echoes in a deadpan voice. Andrés doesn’t need to look up to know that he’s pushing his glasses up his nose. A dreadful habit. “You’re stealing from the monks now?” 

Andrés laughs and the vaulted ceiling turns it into something dark, something ominous. A villain’s cackle, a madman’s mirth. 

“And add yet another sin to my studious catalogue of crimes? No.” He shakes his head. “It’s a bottle I stored here years ago.” 

A 1947 Cheval Blanc, to be precise. It’s a keepsake of his first robbery with Martín, a memento of their shared past. The beginning of the end. 

Andrés remembers vividly how they broke into the auction house, their bodies thrumming with adrenaline. They were so young back then, believing themselves to be invincible. Driven by an insatiable hunger, an unquenchable thirst for greatness. Their alliance had been so raw, so fragile in these early days. A fledgling thing. 

Back then, they had eyed each other with suspicion – not so much because they were weary of one another, but because they didn’t trust the immediate sense of kinship they felt between them. The red thread of fate that seemed to bind them together, entangling their lives irrevocably.

Sergio sighs, a small exhale of breath that forces Andrés back to the present. 

“He’s _reckless_ ,” he says and Andrés suppresses the urge to laugh. Ah yes, he thinks, there it is. The reason why Sergio sought him out. 

_Martín_. 

“He’s passionate,” Andrés says, not looking up. 

“He’s volatile.” 

“He’s fiercely loyal.” 

He can feel Sergio’s eyes boring into his back, dark and persistent. 

“He still loves you.” 

“Yes,” Andrés says softly. 

His reaction is vastly different from what it was years ago. There are worlds between them, each containing multitudes. Now, there is no tipped-head smile, no false bravura. He feels neither pride nor amusement nor gratification. There’s nothing left inside of him, nothing left to give. Not after what happened three days ago, when Martín – his clever, impossible engineer – cornered him in the classroom... 

Andrés finally spots the bottle he’s been looking for. It seems as unassuming as the others, and yet it is infinitely precious to him, encompassing a realm of memories. His fingers brush over its body almost reverently before he grasps the neck and pulls it out. 

“This is one of the rarest bottles of wine in the world. Only a handful of people have been fortunate enough to taste it,” Andrés says, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s one of my most treasured possessions. It is _invaluable_.” 

He swallows. 

“I’ve been saving it for a special occasion, but now I’m starting to doubt myself. I’m holding it in my hands, and yet I cannot bring myself to taste it.” He hesitates, picking his words carefully. “What if I open it and find that it’s not as wondrous as I thought? That it’s just another bottle of wine? That it’s ordinary and vile, and that it disappoints me?” 

Sergio heaves a long-suffering sigh. From the corner of his eye Andrés can see him massaging his temples, as though this whole conversation exasperates him. 

“This isn’t about the wine.” 

“No,” Andrés admits. “It’s not.” 

A contemplative silence settles over them, thickening the air. 

“You should do it,” Sergio says eventually. Even though his tone is laced with resignation, the words fill Andrés with hope. “It’s unwise to keep wine bottled up for too long. The fermentation converts glucose to CO2 and Ethanol, and the generated CO2 will over-pressurize the bottle, causing it to explode.” 

“Oh _hermanito_ ,” Andrés chuckles, shaking his head as he finally meets his brother’s eyes. “And here I thought you didn’t know how to appreciate a fine wine.” 

“No,” Sergio says. “But I do know about human nature.” 

The words hang in the air between them, _lingering_ , and Andrés embraces the solace they offer to his despairing soul. Embraces, too, the implication behind them – Sergio’s unspoken blessing. It leaves him with a sense of anticipation, a wonderful warmth that fills him to the core. 

A thing with feathers, indeed. 

And just like that it seems that their delightful intervention has come to an end. With a jerky nod, Sergio turns on his heels, leaving Andrés behind in the cellar, surrounded by shadows. His hands clutch the bottle of wine tightly, possessively. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A thing with feathers_ references Emily Dickinson's poem 'Hope'.


	6. Wine

Three days. 

Andrés doesn’t speak to him for three days. 

Three arduous, agonizing days in which Andrés pays no attention to him whatsoever, acting as though Martín were invisible, beneath his notice. Andrés doesn’t share knowing looks with him whenever one of the others says something inane in class. He doesn’t talk to him during dinner and he doesn’t acknowledge his presence when they pass in the corridor like two ships in the night, haunted specters in this Gothic tale of their own creation. 

It’s cruel and heartless and inhumane, and Martín wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he has died and gone to hell. That this is his personal purgatory – a world without Andrés. 

Truthfully, he doesn’t know how he copes. The only thing keeping him from drowning his sorrow in alcohol is the fact that it hasn't turned out too well the last time. That and Sergio’s vigilant eyes watching him like a hawk, eagerly awaiting his next misstep so he can finally boot him from the monastery. 

Martín is on the verge of breaking down. He wants to storm up to Andrés and grab him by the lapels of his ridiculously expensive suit. Wants to shove him up against a wall and scream in his face for daring to ignore him, for making him suffer. For acting as though he’s just another member of the _banda_ , Denver and Rio and _Palermo who_? 

But most of all, Martín wants to give up. To surrender. Fall to his knees in front of Andrés’s door and beg him to take him back, to please please please forgive him for whatever it is he has done. Just... _please_. 

But then: a miracle. 

On the third day, Andrés returns to him. 

Martín doesn’t know if Andrés has simply bided his time, or if he savors the poetic implications behind this scenario: how he forced Martín to wallow in self-pity for three whole days before appearing on his doorstep with a lopsided smile and a bottle of wine. It’s an offering, but Martín isn’t sure of its symbolic value: If it’s an olive branch or poison. 

(Either way, he’ll welcome it with open hands. Greedily, _hungrily_.) 

Andrés doesn’t wait for an invitation. He simply pushes past Martín, confident as ever, and there’s nothing left for Martín to do but close the door behind him. His palms are sweating and his heart is thundering inside his chest, a deafening tha-thump that lingers in the strained silence between them. He feels like a sheep in a wolf’s den. 

It doesn’t help that Andrés keeps his eyes locked on him as he crosses the distance to his desk in long, purposeful strides. To Martín’s panic-fraught mind, it seems as if Andrés is circling him. As if he’s just waiting for Martín to expose the soft column of his throat. To show weakness. 

Martín gulps. 

“So,” he says, trying to keep his tone lighthearted. “What’s the occasion?” 

“I found this bottle of wine down in the cellar. A 1947 Cheval Blanc.” Andrés hums low in his throat and even though Martín doesn’t share his appreciation for fine spirits, the glint in Andrés’s eyes lets him know that this one is a treat. “I wanted to enjoy it with my _dearest friend_.” 

His words are knives. Sharp and piercing, they cut right through Martín's heart. 

_Friends_ , his mind echoes back at him in a scornful voice, mocking him, _taunting_ him. 

Right, he thinks. It’s not as though he wasn’t aware of the insurmountable lines between them. That it has been wishful thinking that kept him hoping for more – irrationally, foolishly. He can’t blame Andrés for reminding him of his place. If anything, he should be grateful for Andrés’s benevolence. For his willingness to forgive his transgression and resume their rapport. 

That he’s allowing Martín to be his _dearest friend_ , still. 

He wrestles his lips into a smile. His bottom lip quivers, and so he sinks his teeth into it until the pain distracts him from the burning sensation behind his eyes. 

He doesn’t know why he even bothers. It’s not like Andrés is paying any attention to him; his back is turned to Martín as he fixes two glasses of wine, his fingers caressing the bottle’s neck almost reverently. He looks _e_ _ntranced_ , and Martín wants to rip the damned thing out of his hands, throw it across the room and see it shatter into a million pieces. 

(Like his heart.) 

Andrés hands him a glass before sitting down on the edge of his bed, leaving Martín to either stand or sit next to him. 

He chooses to stand. 

“Drink, Martín.” 

Following Andrés’s orders comes naturally. Come here, Martín. Drink this, Martín. Show me how beautifully you hurt, Martín. How you crash and burn and burst for my amusement. 

_Martín_. 

He downs his glass. Tips it back until he has swallowed every last drop like it is water. It might as well have been; It tastes bland. Bitter and tannic – just like any other wine. Or maybe that’s because Martín can’t taste anything but the lump in his throat, a cloying mess that makes it hard to breathe. 

He doesn’t realize that Andrés has moved until he’s right in front of him, filling up his glass. If Andrés’s goal is to encourage Martín to drink himself to death… Well, it’s probably what he deserves. 

“That’s enough.” 

Martín lowers his glass. It’s still half full – or half empty, Martín isn’t sure – when he puts it down on his desk. He makes to return to his spot near the door, but is stopped abruptly when Andrés's hand shoots out and closes around his wrist. A sharp tug has Martín losing his balance, and he topples right into Andrés's lap. 

Time stops. 

The air catches in his throat. He can’t breathe, can’t think. He’s frozen in fear, a rabbit caught in a hunter’s trap. 

With Herculean effort, Martín drags his eyes up to search Andrés's face for clues. There are none. His eyes are carefully lidded, his lips drawn into a thin line, and even though Martín prides himself in his fluency of Andrés's body language, he comes up empty this time. Andrés's face is closed-off, unreadable. 

“What’s wrong, Martín?” Andrés asks, his voice low and dangerous. “Isn’t this what you wanted the other night?” 

Impossibly, his heart races even faster as a current of hot-white fear rushes through him. 

_No_ , he wants to say, _I’d never_ and _please don’t_. But the protests die on his tongue, soured by the taste of denial. His head is reeling with vivid flashes of that fucking night, at last. Images and thoughts and impressions flooding his mind, crumbling into place. A house of playing cards, collapsing. 

He remembers following Andrés into the classroom, remembers how his chest swelled with awe and pride at the sight that greeted him there. How mesmerizing his friend looked bathed in moonlight, his skin glowing with molten silver. An ethereal creature, a vengeful angel, a god. Powerful, _beautiful_. 

In that moment, all rational thought was eclipsed by the overwhelming need to be close to Andrés, to _have_ him. 

Martín’s body moved on its own accord. The pleasant buzz of the alcohol in his system had dimmed his senses and lowered his inhibition, making him bold and daring. Foolish. Before he knew what was happening, his hands fisted in the velvet of Andrés’s blazer, so soft and warm beneath his fingertips, and Martín stumbled closer closer _closer_ until he landed – clumsily, _gracelessly_ – in Andrés’s lap. 

Of course, Andrés pushed him away. 

Martín’s stomach churns. 

“I don’t remember,” he lies. 

Without warning, Andrés wrenches his hand, twisting Martín’s arm behind his back. Pain floods through him, hot and persistent, and Martín gasps as the movement pushes him towards Andrés until their chests are just a hair’s breadth apart. 

“It was a pathetic attempt at a seduction,” Andrés says coldly, and Martín whimpers. “It was clumsy and artless, and you made a fool of yourself.” 

Martín screws his eyes shut and nods, unable to do anything else. He feels empty. There’s a black hole sucking away inside his chest, right where his heart used to be before Andrés ripped it out and trampled it on the floor. And rightfully so; Martín deserves much worse. 

Just as suddenly as he’s grabbed Martín, Andrés releases him. Martín scrambles off him.

“There’s a fine line between liquid courage and drunken advances,” Andrés continues, and Martín feels his cheeks heat up with shame. “You’ve clearly had too much last time, but I find that one and a half glasses of wine are just enough to dull the nerves without giving up control.” 

Martín sucks in a sharp breath. No, he thinks, trying to quench the treacherous flutter inside his chest. Surely, Andrés doesn't actually want him to... He can't possibly.

“What,” he cuts himself off and clears his throat. “What do you want me to do?” 

“Try again. This time sober, well.” Andrés laughs, shaking his head. “Delightfully tipsy as you are right now.” 

Despite his clarifications, Martín is unconvinced. Life has never been kind to him, and fortune has never favored him. So why should this be any different? But when Martín's eyes flick over to Andrés's face, there is no condescension, no pretense. Instead, Andrés nods towards his lap, his brows raised in silent expectation. It's a challenge, Martín realizes. Invitation and proposition all wrapped into one. 

Hesitantly, Martín crosses the distance between them so he can – slowly, cautiously, gently – straddle Andrés's lap. Every point of contact between their bodies sends a shiver down his spine, and within mere seconds his whole body is on fire, consumed by his excitement, by the anticipation. By the fact that Andrés is allowing him so close, that he’s allowing Martín to press closer and closer still until his waist is bracketed by Martín’s thighs, their chests pressed up against each other. 

He braces his hand on Andrés’s shoulders, so warm and firm, and when he looks up, Andrés is smiling at him. It’s the same smile he reserves for art galleries and grand cathedrals, for holy things. Martín never thought – never dared to hope – that it would one day be directed at _him_. 

It leaves him breathless. 

“Like this?” 

Andrés’s smile widens, dangerous and shark-like. 

“Mm. You’re doing well so far.” 

The teasing words startle a giggle out of him, a giddy little thing. He can feel the last of his doubts dissipating into thin air, finally giving way to the wild flurry of butterflies inside his stomach. He can’t remember the last time he felt this hopeful, this trusting. But oh, to finally have everything he’s ever wanted within reach – it seems an impossibility, and yet... 

He leans in, resting his forehead against Andrés’s until they are breathing the same air. It’s such an intimate moment, these last few seconds before the plunge. When the air is humming with electricity, charged with barely-contained impatience.

Andrés is the first to break.

“Kiss me,” he says, and Martín doesn’t hesitate. Andrés’s teeth sink into his bottom lip, scraping and tasting and nibbling, and Martín can’t hold back the moan that rumbles inside his chest. 

It’s so much more than he’s ever thought he’d have, and yet Martín’s heart is a greedy, selfish thing. He wants _more_ , still. Wants to rub himself against Andrés like a needy kitten, wants to feel the warmth of his body and the lean angles of his chest and waist against his own. He wants to touch and taste, wants to swallow Andrés down and devour him whole. 

“You’re a fucking bastard,” Martín says when he pulls away, the bite behind his words completely ruined by the smile on his face. 

Andrés chuckles and something inside of Martín gives way, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. 

“Seduce me,” Andrés says and Martín leans in again. Andrés stops him, shaking his head.

“No. With words. Tell me what you want,” he says, but Martín can hear his unspoken request. What Andrés means is: _tell_ _me how much you want_ me. 

Right. Andrés is a man of passion, a gifted artist. A vivant of beauty and elegance. Of course, he’d want fucking poetry and finesse. A tasteful seduction. Well, Martín isn’t a poet – not by a long shot – but he’ll give as good as he’s got. 

He takes Andrés’s face between his hands. 

“I want to buy you a fucking vineyard in France or Italy – somewhere where it’s warm and sunny,” Martín says, breathless with desire. With _yearning_. “I want to feed you fresh fruit and make you tea just the way you like it. I want to kiss you every day, and I want you to fuck me and hold my hand while you’re doing it. I want to be the first thing you see each morning and the last thing on your mind each night.” 

He pauses. Takes a deep breath to ease the lump in his throat. 

“But most of all – more than anything – I want _you_. You’re my other half, Andrés. My fucking sun and moon and stars. You are my _dearest_ _friend_.” 

He must have said the right thing. Andrés’s whole face lights up at his words, at his confession, his declaration of love. It’s a thing of wonder to be allowed to see Andrés like this. To see his eyes shining with unshed tears, so open and vulnerable for once. He looks impossibly beautiful right then, and Martín feels his chest clench in response. 

When Andrés kisses him again, Martín can taste the wine on his lips and it’s the sweetest thing he’ll ever have. 

Andrés, Martín knows, is the sweetest thing he’ll ever have. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank everyone who took the time to read and review this story; your kind comments mean the world to me.
> 
> If you're craving more Berlermo content, take a look at my [tumblr](http://www.sorrydearie.tumblr.com/tagged/prompt-fill) where I recently filled some prompts.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something short and lighthearted-ish. Let me know what you think.


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